


Wounds of the Heart

by BrokenKestral



Series: Whumptober2020 [14]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen, Lost dreams, Truth, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenKestral/pseuds/BrokenKestral
Summary: Peter returns from fighting the giants to find his siblings shadowed.
Series: Whumptober2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970584
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Wounds of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober Prompt 30: Now Where Did That Come From?  
> Wound Reveal
> 
> So you know that quote from Prince Caspian where Lewis wrote, “Peter calling to mind the courtly language“? So I admit I had to go back and reread a portion of Enemies Against to recall this language to mind again.
> 
> A/N: I took liberties with the prompt, I admit. But a certain scenario has been on my personal prompt list for quite some time, and so I combined the two.

_Home_ . There it stood, stalwart, strong, and he knew it to be filled with warmth. At last, Cair Paravel. _Home_. 

The High King glanced at the Leopard at his side and smiled. “Dost look for thy lady, Sir Leo?”

“Yes, your Majesty. I can see her on the East tower, her form dearer to me than the sunset behind her.”

“Thy brother has no one to wait for him still? Or did he win the fair Cheyteha’s heart with his wondrous speed?”

“His still more wondrous sense of humor still keeps her at a distance at times,” Leo said dryly, looking back at the soldiers streaming behind them. But the humor in his face left, for the long line behind them bore many wounded, and his brother, having refused to be carried by litter or horse, limped near the end of it, a rarity for the swift Cat. 

“He will be honored for the saving of my life, dear friend, and in fulfillment of his long wish, will be knighted by the Queen Susan, if she returns. By next summer thine memory shall recall much more of the joy than the sorrow of this war.”

“Forgive me, your Majesty. I forgot your own hurts and sorrow.”

“He is your brother.” Peter glanced at his home, thinking of his own brother, still far away in Tashbaan, and the sister he missed so much. “Such worry reveals your love, though not your faith. Go; we are in sight, and I no longer need a guard. Go to your brother!”

The Leopard hesitated. “But your own wounds, your Majesty?” 

Peter laughed. “A glancing blow in the arm and a broken bone in the foot! Of such ailments jestful stories are told, not legends! Nor do we die of them. Be off!”

Leo grinned, a large cat grin, and bounded off. Peter, who had been riding at a sedate pace to make things easy on the wounded—for truly the battle with the Giants had been fierce, and far too many had been lost or hurt—but now that _home_ was in sight, he spurred his horse, flashing forward and away before the rest of his startled guards could react, laughing mischievously at their cries. For he was near home, and for a few seconds could act as a child. 

Though not fully a child. _After all_ , he reasoned to himself, _it is quite adult to go ahead and task the healers to prepare for the wounded_. And the thought killed his laughter, but not his longing; he urged his horse still faster, leaning forward and to the right to compensate for his wounded arm. It throbbed after the ride, and his foot hurt more than he’d let on, but they were paltry wounds, compared to the victory of the Giants’ surrender, their fear of setting foot on Narnian lands.

At least for a few more summers.

The wall in sight, and he in the sight of the guards; he heard their cries, the echoing of the horn ringing from the Cair, and he laughed again. _The sounds of home!_

Then up, through the gates, and the sound—how he had missed it!—of his stallion’s hooves on the stone court, and already the wide door was slowly opening, and as he swung off his horse he heard running feet, and the clear, laughing voice of a Queen. 

“My brother! Art home!” 

He turned, bracing himself, but Lucy had seen the white bandage on his foot and arm, and halted at the bottom of the stairs with a curtsy, rising again with a laughing face. 

“Still standing? And alone, so thy hurts must not be of fearful harm. But would you have me fetch anything? A healer? Food? Drink? A cordial?” She strode forward as she spoke, and touched his arm with delicate fingers; yet the laughter of her face had not decreased, and Peter reached with both hands to turn her face back to his.

“Thy joy may yet be enough for me, yet what occured to cause it? And I would have thee call a healer, but not for me,” he added quickly, when the smile left her face. “The giants caused many wounds, and it would be wise to have both healers and thy cordial on hand.”

“Then I go to fetch both, and at once; but after, oh Peter! I have much to tell thee!” she called as she ran back up the steps to the door. She paused just inside it, turning for one more look. “Prince Cor has been found!” she sang out, turning away with light feet once more. 

Peter stood speechless. The missing Prince Cor? Stolen from their neighbor as a baby; even now Peter could see King Lune, the good, kindly, joyous man, crying while holding a fussing Prince Corin, fruitlessly trying to quiet the baby who missed his brother.*

King Lune had taught them much, in the days and years after, of bringing grief to open expression, sorrowing through it, and finding faith and joy on the other side. But always on that day, and on the day of his wife’s death, the grief he carried spilled forth. Peter had been there, the year before. King Lune had walked away from horse, hound, and friend, and sat in the twins’ old nursery. Peter had seen the pain on his face and followed him, hesitating quietly in the door when he saw where his friend sat. The Archenland King, looking up, unashamed of the tears on his cheeks, called him in. He bid him welcome in the sharing of grief, and even asked the Narnian King to seek Aslan with him, as he did each year, for _when_ his son would come home.

Now the King had been answered. But how?

“Truly, Queen of Narnia, perhaps the healer was called to examine his head, for he seems to walk in a daze.”

At the playful, familiar tone Peter turned swiftly, forgetting his broken foot, and nearly pitching forward onto the stones. Strong arms caught him, and he looked up to see his brother’s face.

“Edmund, my brother!” he exclaimed, gripping the arms that caught him. “Art back from Tashbaan so soon? ‘Tis good to have sight of you. What of our sister? How did things conclude? Did she-”

“I am here,” and Peter caught his breath at the beauty of that voice. That _voice_ , speaking by a Gentle heart; he had gone to war wondering if Narnia would hear it again. He had not believed Rabadash worthy of it, but knew he must let Narnia’s Queen make her own choices. And now—he turned, more cautious of his foot this time, and drew his other sister into his arms.

“Welcome to thy home,” he whispered. He let go, saying, “or, if not thy home, the land ever-ready to welcome thee.” But to his surprise his sister’s arms did not release him, and he heard a shuddered breath leave her lungs. Quickly he cradled her again, looking over her head at Edmund. He knew his brother could read the question on his face. What wounded his sister’s heart, that she sought shelter as she had not done in years? But the Just King shook his head, and Peter left it for the time being. 

“What is this news I hear, the Prince Cor being found? Have we to rejoice with our good neighbor, or to pity all the greater the father of two rapscallions?” 

Edmund laughed, and Peter felt Susan’s arms loosen, and then draw back. “Our brother could give thee better account than I of the Prince, for he has met his Highness twice.” She smiled, a bright smile that Peter knew held some real joy, and Peter looked back to Edmund.

“Our first meeting occurred by the Lion’s will in Tashbaan. I saw him filthy and ragged, and mistook him for the Prince Corin.”

“An easy mistake for even a judge to make,” Peter agreed quite gravely. Susan laughed. Oh, the bright sound that filled him with relief. Her laughter still echoed _here_. 

“Ay, for when we found his younger twin, Prince Corin was worse yet. Yet in despite of such unpromising beginnings, but a few weeks proved the new Prince’s steadiness, eagerness to serve, and understanding of fairness. Though his sword skills be a bit lacking,” Edmund finished dryly. 

“And Prince Corin?” Peter asked quietly.

“Thrilled not to be burdened with the circlet of responsibility that so well adorns thine own brow.”

“And so all is well, and ended,” Susan put in quietly. “Wilt come inside?”

“Gladly, though I confess I have need of help.” Instantly his sister slipped to his side, pulling his arm over her shoulders, and his brother was on the other. 

Oh, the joy of knowing all three rulers would stay! They made him bear the pain of climbing the stairs with good grace, and submitting to a rebandaging of his wounds (though that was painful indeed) without a word. Then Edmund (Susan had joined Lucy in preparing for the wounded) helped him to a seat by both fire and window, and Peter watched the courtyard come alive with Narnians. By the time the rest of the army arrived there were helpers for each wounded soldier, relieving the burden of the well but worn marchers. Susan and Lucy both were in the courtyard, Susan directing the helpers with Gentle words and honoring the hurting, and Lucy working among the dying. Edmund left to help, and Peter watched as the last of his men and Beasts were welcomed even as he had been. 

It was good to be home. 

Even if his sisters’ faces caused him unease. Lucy’s still danced inwardly with that joy, once the worst were healed. Those she tended next were often smiling by the time she left. By contrast, Susan seemed worn, and though all her gentleness was called at, and those under her care collapsed in absolute trust, her face and movements were as shadowed as Lucy’s were free. Edmund was too guarded to read from such a distance, but he stayed as close to Susan as Peter wished to be. As if he, who had gone with her, had also feared losing her. Something had transpired while the High King was away. 

A seasoned warrior, he dozed in his chair, eyes sometimes gazing at the warm dancing flames and sometimes closed. He knew his siblings would join him later. So he rested, enjoying the moment, but ready.

Alert, his eyes opened the instant the door pushed inward, and Lucy’s smile grew brighter when her eyes met his. 

“Not sleeping? Our sister will be disappointed, for she read the pain in thy face and manner, brother mine.”

“I could not sleep while so content to be home.”

“Ah.” Lucy went to the fire and grabbed a footstool resting near it, pulling it forward to sit near Peter’s chair. He rested his hand on her shoulder, knowing she had chosen the seat to be near him. 

“Is aught wrong with our sister?” he asked in a low voice.

“Much, my brother, but ‘tis not my tale to tell,” she answered him, equally softly. “Truthfully,-”

“And thou art proved right yet again! For look, our brother is alert and not sleeping,” came Susan’s clear voice from the doorway, and the two looked up to see Edmund and Susan both there. They came forward, Edmund moving a chair right beside Peter’s for his sister, and pulling close another for himself, opposite of Peter, his back to the fire. 

“My thanks, Edmund.” Susan settled herself down with a graceful folding of her skirts, smiling at Lucy before looking to Peter. “Welcome home, again, brother of ours.” 

Peter reached for both her hands and she gave them willingly. 

“Wilt thou tell me what shadows thy face?” he asked her, holding her hands when she would have drawn them away. 

“Your homecoming-”

“I am home, and glad to my _heart_ to find thee here with our brother, but that was not my question.”

“She does not wish to diminish the joy of thy safe return, or the heaviness of thy campaign,” Edmund put in. Peter kept his eyes on Susan, though he nodded his thanks. 

“I would far rather fight these shades away from my home than ignore them till a better time; thee knows me well enough to know that as well, my sister?”

And there. Her eyes shone with water, her mouth opened to breathe through the pain brought to light, and her hands began trembling. Love, she had taught Peter by example, is a great revealer; to give love to wounded hearts was often to open the wounds again.

But she taught him love healed them as well, and Peter was determined to begin. 

“Would it help thy heart, my sister, if I were the one to tell the tale?” Edmund’s grave and gentle offer was another gift from love, and Susan closed her eyes. She nodded, the tears on her cheeks falling onto her lap. Peter kept her hands, but turned towards Edmund to give her a semblance of privacy. 

“We stayed in Tashbaan for weeks, my brother. We were at first received with all honor, and the Tisroc himself (may his dealings with us blight his life to be short) invited us again and again. Yet in his own home and with his own people, the Prince was revealed to be a proud, bloodthirsty tyrant.” Peter felt Susan flinch, and looked at her sharply. Sorrow, not fear, stood stark on her face. She had loved him, Peter realised with a pang. A part of him, or perhaps only the person that she thought him to be, had touched her. To find what one loved to be false, to be a delusion, was a deep wound to the heart. He raised one hand to her face, wiping away her tears, but she did not open her eyes. “Our sister saw that clearly, though I am sorry to repeat it,” Edmund finished more softly, and Peter saw Lucy’s hand reach across his knees to touch Susan as well. “But the Prince is little used to losing his prize, and he determined to take what would not be given, if he must.” Peter’s head snapped up, staring at Edmund. The Just’s dark eyes met his gravely, nodding to confirm his words. Peter took in a breath.

“He would dare raise his hand, or his nation’s hands, to the Queen of another kingdom? He had so little honor, to so deal with his _guests_?” Susan’s hand covered his, and he looked back to her. She’d opened her eyes and regarded him gravely, warning him to calm down. 

“He threatened as much, and we outfoxed him,” Edmund continued calmly.

“ _How?_ ”

“Mr. Tumnus,” Lucy broke in, and though her joy was subdued, there was quiet satisfaction in the proven worth of her friend; the former traitor who saved the Daughter of Eve he’d once thought to betray. 

“Our good cousin came up with a plan that got us and our stores onto the _Splendor Hyaline_ , and that night (by Aslan’s grace our friend and neighbor Prince Corin was yet aboard) we set sail for Narnia.”

Peter took a measured breath. Aslan had watched over them once again, and all Four were _home_. That was enough.

But Lucy was looking up, like she had her own tale to tell. Ah, of course, how the Prince Cor was found. If she thought that happy tale good to tell _now_ , Peter would find another time to assure himself his other sister was recovering. 

“The _Splendor Hyaline_ was sighted while still a day from shore,” she took up the story smoothly. Peter turned to her, confused. There was more to the tale? “Hours before our royal family reached Narinian shores, a Stag named Cherry dashed through our open gates and promptly into Lord Peridan. He told a tale of a boy, pale and dirty of face, stumbling out of the Archenland pass and meeting several Narnians.” This must be Cor, Peter thought. Lucy’s tale was of him after all, and not the wound bleeding from their sister. “‘Twas a boy who came from Tashbaan bearing news, a warning of Rabadash and two hundred horses riding to slaughter Archenland’s court.” Peter dropped Susan’s hands, pushing himself up on the arms of the chair, but Lucy’s hand on one knee and Susan’s suddenly on his shoulder forced him back down.

“Ware thy wounds, brother,” Susan warned.

Peter bit his lip, fighting to continue his fury. It demanded he pace, move, stride to the window and then towards the fire.

“He _dared_?” He clenched his fingers around the wooden armrest, the grain smooth beneath his white fingers. “What came of the attack?” he asked, fighting for calmness. 

“Cherry came to beg help for our neighbors,” Lucy continued, her hand remaining on his knee. Susan gently unclenched the fingers of one hand and held it in her own. Peter glanced towards her, and at the sight of the shadows his rage increased. To have such a base one dare to think he could claim her, to _force_ her, to win her; not seeing if he had been a better man he might have won her. If he had been the man he’d pretended, courteous and brave, he would have known he could woo but not _take_ such a heart—that _he had dared_ —

But the shadows darkened her face because Rabadash had proved himself base, and frightened her. Peter could not give in to his fury and burden her with bearing it, not when she was wounded. 

He looked back to Lucy, who had stopped, waiting for his attention. “Thee went, of course, to their aid.”

“I, our Royal Brother when he landed, and all those left from thy campaign. Those home from the ship stayed at Cair to guard it, on the thought that the fiend,” and again the tremor ran through Susan’s arm, her fingers still placed on Peter’s shoulder, “to circumvent our neighbors and come here. But on the way to their aid,” and the smile of the heart that Lucy could not keep back broke through again, “we found the boy, a runaway slave, sitting at the home of a Dwarf clan. Corin recognised him at once as the one mistaken for him in Tashbaan, and at my royal brother’s stern glance I held my tongue—’tis better, he said, not to say a thing before it is confirmed by those who had the right—and merely declared it a marvelous thing. But my good friend the Royal Scapegoat,” and Susan’s fingers were gradually loosening at Lucy’s light, lilting tone and her words recounting the good that came of their Tashbaan adventure, “in clean contrariness to my Royal Brother’s orders, decided to involve both himself and his brother in the battle.” 

Peter started. Corin was heedless, too heedless for battle, but battle itself may have steadied him. A runaway slave, however, who would have never touched a sword—Peter looked at Edmund.

“If I had found, or known, he would have never entered the battle,” Edmund said steadily, and Peter knew he meant it. “But the protection of Aslan was on him, and I heard, later, he fought with no skill but great courage, till knocked off his horse.”

Peter smiled ruefully. The protection of Aslan indeed; often were men knocked right off their horses and into terror, only to find they were safer there; none attacked the dead during battle. 

“After the battle,” Lucy took it up again, “he rose, and soon found Edmund across from Rabadash, the Prince hanging from a hook on the castle wall, and all laughing at him!” Peter smiled grimly; there could have been no more trying thing for the Prince, though Peter wished him hurt as well as humiliated. Blood had been spilled, he did not doubt, between the two hundred and the forces against them; and still there were the shadows on his sister’s face. 

“I wished to kill him,” Edmund broke in, but his eyes strayed to Susan’s face when Peter glanced over. “Yet for the sake of my sister’s heart, I am glad, now, that I did not.”

“Then where is—that Prince? In our dungeons, or King Lune’s?”

Lucy began laughing, and Peter looked at her, astonished. “Oh, Peter! Indeed he was taken to the dungeons, or what suffices for them in Archenland, but by our brother’s council, he was given a chance to mend. The proud fool,” Lucy said sadly, shaking her head. “He would not hear us, and said many cruel and proud things, but then Aslan came.” She smiled, and Peter’s heart began to unclench. Of all the beings that existed, there was none who knew justice better than He. If He came, justice and retribution could be set at rest. “He too warned Rabadash, and Rabadash, making horrid faces, dared to call Him demon. And then Aslan turned him into a donkey.”

Peter stared, at a loss for a moment, and then began laughing. He glanced at Susan, trying to muffle his laughter in case it bothered her, but she was smiling ruefully. “The Tisroc’s firstborn son is now a _donkey_?”

“For the time being,” Edmund corrected wryly, but his mouth too was twitching, and as Lucy’s laughter joined Peter’s, the other two could not help but give themselves up to healing laughter as well. “If the fool finally listens to Aslan, at the next feast of Tash he should be made man again.”

Peter’s laughter ceased. “In front of the whole of the feasting nobility,” he said gravely, and Edmund nodded. 

“It will stain his name for all of history,” Edmund finished softly. 

“And he will fool no one again,” Susan put in, her voice hard. Peter took both her hands again. Justice and retribution were satisfied, but sorrow was not. 

“I would have thee grieve,” he said to her softly.

“Grieve for what?” she asked, at a loss. “That a donkey masquerading as a prince was unmasked to my eyes before he trampled me?” She shook her head. “I cannot grieve the loss of that, my brother.”

“Thou shouldst grieve the loss of thy dream.” Her eyes met his, surprised. “The dream was not reality, and that is why it is lost. Thou mayst grieve the dream, my sister, without shame. There was beauty in it.” 

Again his love, and his compassion, reached past her walls to reveal her wound, and she bent over, weeping. Peter heard Lucy’s stool scrape the floor, and then the younger woman had her arms around the older, and a moment later Edmund joined them, his face grave. Peter himself wept, for the shadows only lifted by tears, for the heart of his sister, and for the truth that sometimes the Princes of the world were Rabadashes.

_We who are your children feel  
_ _this empty space where some lost thing  
_ _should have rested in its perfection,  
_ _and we pine for those nameless glories  
_ _and we pine for all the wasted stories in our world,  
_ _and we pine for these present wounds.  
_ _We pine for our children and for their children too_  
_knowing each will have to prove how this universal pain is also  
_ _personal.**_

But as they grieved, Susan began to heal. Peter saw Edmund looking at him, thanking him wordlessly, and nodded. The Just Judge had been too close, and too nearly a victim, for him to do what Peter had. And Peter, his siblings in his arms, thanked Aslan for the gift and the burden of being made the eldest, and thanked Him for bringing Peter home. 

For this, right now and right here, was home.

**Author's Note:**

> *I have twin nieces, and they did not sleep well if they were not in the same room when they were younger than a year. That was also a very large problem, because one liked to wake up sooner than the other, and would then deliberately wake her sister up and make her grumpy. I don’t know if all twins are that way—and I’m not sure Corin knew he had a twin brother, because his meeting with Shasta doesn’t make much sense if he knew (he’d at least suspect, right?), but as a baby, I could see him struggling to sleep without his twin. Not that you really wanted that heartbreaking image. Can I claim both Whumptober and the truth as my excuse?
> 
> **One of my favorite modern poems, “A Liturgy for Those Who Weep Without Knowing Why,” which can be found in its entirety at:  
> rabbitroom.com/2018/03/for-tenebrae-a-liturgy-for-those-who-weep-without-knowing-why/
> 
> A/N: I need a pair to torture, one for physical and one for emotional; it does have to be a pair, so friends, siblings, anything from Eustace and Jill (though I’m not sure their times in Narnia allow for it) to your favorite, but I’m tired of telling characters I’m torturing them, and would like to blame someone else. Please pick a pair of people for me?


End file.
